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Friday, November 30, 2012

So I'm walking towards Madison Avenue yesterday enjoying the late afternoon shadow dancing off the buildings and sidewalks and I look up and I swear there's Garbo's Ghost taking her constitutional. By the time I got to the corner she was gone. Spooky stuff.

Downtown a few nights ago, near Fanelli's Cafe, I sensed the urgency inside everyone leaving one important thing to rush to the next important thing. I moved to the other side of the street where fewer pedestrians made me calmer.

Last week, I saw a lovely sunset washing over over New York Harbor and Bay Ridge.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

A windy afternoon, I ran along the Hudson wall, too chilly to walk I kept moving along, just stopping to take in the furious sunset burning its heatless light off the Manhattan side of the river. Alone, I walked on the moon. A brief epiphany. I left when I couldn't feel my numb finger on the shutter button of my camera.

I'm telling a doozy so get there early because I'm leading off and enjoying the rest of the show from the catbird seat. Barbara, Nicole, Amanda and Adam performing is my idea of an excellent time. Start saving your $8 dollars right now, that includes a free drink.

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Giants playing the Packers tonight? I'm ready, been ready for 50 years.

Doesn't always work out for the Jints and me, but for good luck I have Uncle Mommy, Teddy, and my #16 OLGC Rams blue jersey circa 1969. For double good luck I have the enormous mittens Nan knitted, and Hector the Duck who has survived three neck surgeries.

Know for sure, when the game's on the line someone's going into a headlock.

Friday, November 23, 2012

I walked Bush Terminal last year on a perfect day after it rained. Moseyed up and down the cobblestone streets, in between the warehouses and along the rails on 2nd Avenue. Checked out every puddle and met a beautiful car named, Victoria. Here are photos from my walkabout and a link to more pictures.

Thursday, November 22, 2012

This is the third and last part of my Thanksgiving 1961 Yorkville story.

Central Park 102nd Street

Around one, we got back to my father’s family’s apartment for Thanksgiving dinner. Dad’s Mom, and Step-Dad, John Rode, Nan and Pop Cuckoo to me, always cooked our bird. Mom’s parents did Easter’s lamb roast. At the kitchen table, Mom and Nan were snapping ends off a few pounds of string beans and throwing them into a spaghetti pot. Rory and Pop were in the living room watching Babes in Toyland starring Laurel and Hardy.

“Hi, all, I thought we were eating at one?” Dad said.

“The bird’s got a way to go – maybe another hour,” Nan said.

Mom gave Dad a silent, “No way.” I was a first class Mom lip reader.

Dad went over to the oven and opened the front.

“Jesus Christ, who are you feeding?”

“Shut your mouth,” Nan said.

“That prehistoric beast is the same size as Rory,” Dad said.

“Mind your business.”

“Did the tribe bring him down with a spear?... or a net?” Dad said.

Mom whispered to me, “Rory is smaller.”

“We’ll eat tomorrow,” Dad said.

“Another hour. Go inside and be useful.” Nan said, waving Dad away. “Get two folding chairs and bring me my bag. I forgot something and need you to go to the store.”

Dad eyed me up and down. He wanted to send me to the store but he thought I was getting sick. Resigned, Dad exhaled loudly, ensuring, everyone in the balcony knew he was leaving the stage. Being at Nan’s cheered me up. Everything was big. She was big. Pop was big. The coffee cups were big. At her house, I could drink anything I wanted, when I wanted. Dad returned from the front room to the kitchen with Nan’s pocketbook. I could see his arm muscles working hard, lifting the heavy bag.

“Here you go. What do you need?” Dad said.

“Go down to Parker’s and get me a pound of butter.”

Dad walked to the fridge, opened the door and stuck his head in it. “You have a full pound.”

“I need six sticks for the mashed potatoes.”

“We’re six people! That’s a quarter pound of butter per person. Are you trying to stop our hearts with a single meal?”

“I’m making mashed potatoes for the week and it’s none of your business. Get the butter.”

“Oh, only twenty-six pounds. Let’s see, at more than four pounds per person that should cover our meat provision on our Easter Island sea voyage.”

I was curious: Would Nan slap him or not? I was pulling for a slap. She seemed real close. Instead, she stared him down. He wisely took the money and went to the grocery store. I joined Rory and Pop inside the living room. We watched the end of the movie. Dad came back from the store and stayed in the kitchen with Nan and Mom. More than an hour passed.

“I’m starving. How much longer?” Dad said.

“I’ll take a look,” answered Nan.

I got up and watched through the doorway. Nan opened the oven and took the turkey out with her arms firmly hanging onto both pan handles. From behind, she looked like a Russian Olympic weightlifter. She placed the pan on the counter and checked the thermometer. Dad was right behind her.

“What does it say?” Dad said.

“135 degrees,” Nan said.

“Forget it, put it back in.”

“No, it’s done.”

“You’re nuts.”

“It’s fine, look?”

Nan sliced into the meat. It was pink as a flower.

“Meat is supposed to be 175 degrees before you eat it,” Dad said. “That bird just stopped breathing.”

“That’s it. Let’s go.” Nan said and moved the enormous pan toward the table. Dad met her halfway across the kitchen floor and began guiding her back toward the oven. They both had their hands on the pan’s small handles.

A turkey dance!

“Give it to me,” Dad said.

“Leave me alone. Start mashing the potatoes,” Nan said.

“Give it to me!”

He tugged. She tugged. The pan didn’t know what to do.

Then in full view, the confused pan flipped over. The bird with all its natural juices leapt to its death; landing on Dad’s new dress shoes with the little pinholes all over the leather. Stunned, Nan and Dad stared down at the linoleum and the bird for a long time. Nan spoke first. “Ah shit, I’m lying down,” And she did.

She passed through the living room. Me frozen in the doorway and Pop had Rory on his lap. They watched like two wide mouth bass. I wish I could’ve taken a picture of their faces. Pop and Mom exchanged places. She joined Rory watching TV. Pop went to the kitchen and began to help Dad. They put the bird back in the pan with a couple of cups of water to replace the lost gravy. Then they put the pan back in the oven. Pop gave Dad one of his extra large tee shirts. None of Pop’s pants fit Dad, so he gave Dad a pair of boxer shorts. Dad wore Pop’s boxer shorts over his boxer shorts – that went nicely with his dark socks and skinny legs. I saw Mom peek in, point at Dad and start to laugh.

Sometime much later, Pop announced, “OK, everything is ready.”

He went into the front room and brought Nan back. She returned to the kitchen and took over as if nothing had happened.

“Bob, carve the meat.”

Dad grabbed the knife and did as he was told. This relieved everyone. The table comfortably sat six people yet with the large amount of food on it, it was hard to see each other. Everyone was scary polite. Late in the meal, Dad looked at the bucket of mashed potatoes and said, “You know from this angle, I believe I can see a couple of goats circling the top of PotatoMountain.”

We all laughed except Nan. But she didn’t hit him. The storm passed and Rory and I started looking forward to our favorite Thanksgiving ritual – Pop watching. He was a gentle bear and never yelled at us. After the meal, he drank two short glasses of Ballantine Ale, wiped his mouth carefully with his linen napkin, and said, “Thank you, excuse me.”

Pop Rode & Tommy 1958

He lifted himself from the table, then walked from his kitchen chair to his living room chair. Once Rory and I heard “Swoosh,” Pop’s bottom sinking into the plastic, we started counting backward, “10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1…”

We peeked into the living room. Pop was sawing wood. Rory and I stared at him.

While Pop slept, a cartoon came on with two poor kids who go to bed with nothing to eat. They dream, people come and bring them goodies and music starts to play. Rory and I stood behind Pop’s chair on each side of his head and sung quietly into his ears along with the cartoon song:

Meet me tonight in dreamland, under the silvery moon.

Meet me tonight in dreamland, where love’s sweet roses bloom.

Come with the love light gleaming, in your dear eyes of blue.

Meet me in dreamland, Sweet dreamy dreamland,

There let my dreams come true.

Our singing didn’t wake him. Pop had a stretched out snore with three different sounds. Nan had a toy piano with eight color coded keys. You could play a full octave of tones. It came with a color-coded music book with classics like “Pop Goes the Weasel,” “Roll Out the Barrel” and “This Old Man.” Rory was pretty good on the thing – he played “Jingle Bells” with ease. Rory went over to the piano. In between snores he’d hit a key. It sounded pretty good. Rory played around a bit until he located a couple of notes that harmonized with Pop’s snoring. Not wanting to be left out, not having Rory’s natural musical talent, I improvised. Nan’s toilet door made a nasty creaking sound when you opened or closed it. I went over to the door and opened it a smidge to see if I could somehow join the band. I found a funky “eek” noise and added it to the mix. Leaning over, looking back into the living room, I could see Rory. Once we made eye contact, it was easy to find our rhythm. We riffed, “Snore, piano key, eek; snore, piano key, eek.”

“Our song had a hook,” as Dad liked to say. Mom threw a sponge at my head. I ducked. The band played on. Sponge two was in the air. I avoided it by doing the cha-cha.

“I will kill you both. Keep it up, I’ll kill you both,” she said.

Noticing Mom had run out of sponges, and the next airborne item could be a spoon or fork, Rory and I left the airwaves. Later on, Pauline and Charlie Hannah came over and started playing Pokeno with Nan and Pop. Dad and Mom moved to the sink area. I sat on the washing machine right next to them. Mom picked up a dish and started scrubbing it. Dad squeezed too much dish soap into the water, then started playing with the faucet’s screws.

“Let’s get this over with,” Mom warned. “You’re moping.”

“Not true, the secret is a long hot soak. Then the grease slides itself off.” Dad said and continued to play with the faucet.

“The secret is you’re full of shit and have a bony ass,” Mom said.

“Leave the kids here – you can pick them up in the morning.” Nan helped them gather their things, and threw them out of the house.

Rory and I conked out together on one bed listening to the Pokeno game. We didn’t mind that kind of yelling, you could sleep through it. The last thing on my mind as I drifted off was Santa’s sleigh led by his deer flying high over the 59th Street Bridge, turning up York Avenue headed toward my house.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Thanksgiving morning, 1961, Mom woke me quietly and whispered, “Rory is sick. If you wake him up before you leave, you’re not going either.”

I shook my head yes. I felt bad that my younger brother, Rory, wouldn’t see the parade, but I was happy to go with Dad alone. It was much easier having a good time with Dad when it was just the two of us. This was my first Macy’s parade and I didn’t want one of Dad’s bad moods blowing it.

At nine o’clock, we slipped out the door. We met Dad’s friend, Richie and his daughter, Erika, inside Loftus’ Tavern a few blocks away. The four of us were going together. Richie was talking to Jack, the bar’s owner over coffee. Erika sat on a bar stool sipping a coke and sucking a cube of ice with the hole in the middle. She was a year older than I was, stuck up, and knew everything.

I hated her guts.

Richie greeted us. “Hi, Bob, where’s Rory?”

“He’s sick. We’ll catch up later at my mother’s for dinner. Hi, Erika, you look so pretty and grown up.”

With a wide phony smile she said, “Thank you, Mr. Pryor.”

I almost vomited.

Saying goodbye to Jack, we went out the bar’s side door, smack into a vicious cold wind. A Checker cab was just turning off York Avenue heading west on 85th Street.

Popeye nearing Columbus Circle

“Cabby,” Dad yelled and we piled in.

Despite, plenty of room to sit alongside our fathers, Erika and I sat in the pull-up seats built into the floor of the cab. The seat was a toilet bowl with no opening.

For adults, a Checkercab was transportation; for a kid, it was an amusement ride. And it was better than most rides because there was nothing to strap you in. On the pull-up seats, you bounced around. We were two abandoned socks in a clothes dryer.

Erika and I didn’t acknowledge each other. The cab made it non-stop from York Avenue to Fifth Avenue through a swirl of green and yellow lights. My head slapped the roof several times. The driver impressed me. He was providing an excellent ride. We dove into the 85th Street transverse that cut under Central Park.

“You’re in second grade, right?” Erika asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m in third grade,” she said, pleased as punch.

She knew what grade I was in. She continued talking while looking out her window. I tried ignoring her.

“What are you getting for Christmas?” She asked.

That was a dirty trick. It’s nearly impossible for a kid to stay silent when this subject comes up.

“Things,” I said.

“I’m getting a bike and an Erector set.”

“That’s nice,” I said.

“What did you ask for?” Erika pressed on.

“I’m still deciding. I have a list.”

“What’s on the list?”

“Lots of stuff.”

“Oh, come on, name a few things.”

“That’s between me and Santa.”

“WHAT?” she said.

“It’s between me and Santa.”

“Well, good luck, dummy, because there ain’t no Santa.”

Despite my lingering hope, I worried it was true. I wanted her dead.

I tried to recover. “I know there’s no Santa, stupid.”

“No you didn’t, but you do now.” Her eyebrows arched up and down.

“I play along for my brother. It makes him feel good. He’s just a kid.”

“Still believe in the Easter Bunny?” she said.

‘Ohcrap, him too?’I thought, then said “No, of course not.”

I never realized until that moment, how much detail there was on the stone blocks lining the underpasses through Central Park. The road was twisted and bumpy. My forehead banged repeatedly against the window’s glass. It felt good. It took my mind off the other pain. Silently staring out, I saw the glitter of the granite and the chiseled cuts where they sliced the stone to make the blocks. I imagined Erika’s head being dragged across that rock as we drove back and forth through the park. Kaput!

“Johnny, leave us off on the corner of 86th Street and Central Park West,” Dad’s voice broke my dream of vengeance.

The driver aimed for the curb. The air was frigid. I barely noticed. Normally, I would’ve run ahead toward the action, but my heart remained behind on the cab’s pull-up seat. I took Dad’s hand, even though I didn’t feel like a little boy anymore. We walked south to 77th Street in formation. Dad squeezed my hand. I weakly squeezed back.

We stood inside the park’s wall on the rocks. This allowed us to see the parade over the sidewalk crowd. Only because Dad announced the balloon names as they passed by, do I remember they included Underdog, Popeye, and Bullwinkle J. Moose from Frostbite Falls, Minnesota. It couldn’t have ended fast enough. There were two things I never wanted to see again - that dumb parade and Erika, the Wicked Witch of the East.

I had no
mirror to work with, so I figured out two spots and wiped an inky finger across
each cheek twice.

Sister
Lorraine was giving us a short history lesson on the first Thanksgiving while
she passed back our art assignments. My turkey got a B minus. I’d
run out of brown crayon and finished his stomach off with green and red.

“Children,
the Pilgrims had a bountiful crop their first year in the American
colony. They arranged a peace treaty with the Indians. They
celebrated together, and feasted on geese, deer, corn, and oysters.”

“Yuck,” said
a few kids at the mention of oysters.

Only photo with my tie in place ~ Mom did a cartwheel

Sister
Lorraine threw a look around the room, “and President Lincoln made Thanksgiving
an official holiday in 1863.” She cleared her throat, “Let’s move
on. Everyone take out the hats, bonnets and headdresses we’ve been
working on this past week. Pilgrims, go over to the windows… Indians,
stay on the closet side. Think about your lines, everybody.”

While the
kids got into place, I put on my Indian headdress and returned to the teacher’s
desk. It was the only one with an ink pen. Second graders worked in
pencil. Sister Lorraine, distracted by the two herds moving to her left
and right, missed my pre-show make-up application. Eventually she came
back to me.

“Do you ever listen to me?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Didn’t I just say the Pilgrims and
Natives declared a peace treaty?”

Was she nuts? I thought.

“You’d trust an Injun? I watch
a lot of movies. Believe me;

peace treaties are broken all the
time.”

“This will be a calm re-enactment of a peaceful gathering. Thomas,
the war paint is not necessary.”

“There might be trouble.” I said.

“You have one minute. One
minute, that’s it. Go to the bathroom and wash the ink off your hands and
face. And don’t touch your shirt again. Your mother is going to
kill you.”

Sister Lorraine with Violet and Elizabeth Csordas @ 1964

Disgusted, I ran off.

“Don’t run,” she said.

“Make up your mind,” I mumbled.

I learned a
valuable lesson that day. Cartridge pen ink doesn’t wash off well with
cheap school soap. The nun sent two boys to get me. My head was
buried in the sink.

“Sister told us, ‘Get him
back in here if you have to drag him by his feet,’”

Joey Skrapits said to the back of my
head.

“She’s not
happy. What’s up?” Leslie Henits added. I turned around and
showed them. I held my hands out. They were beginning to look
white; my face, however, had an even blue tan. It seemed the washing,
rather than taking the ink off, just moved it around.

As I crept
through the classroom door, the entire class laughed their heads off. I
tried to bury myself in the middle of the Indian tribe. I thought of
opening one of the coat closets and spending a little time in there. My
first stage appearance as Injun Joe was ruined. The only good part was:
Sister Lorraine was laughing too. I was more afraid about her being angry
than me being embarrassed. Once I saw her laughing, I calmed down.
I almost forgot that my mother was going to murder me.

We did our little Pilgrim and
Indian “everyone be thankful” speeches, and then we started singing, “Over the
river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go…” I stared at the
clock over the alphabet cards lining the top of the blackboard. The clock
said, One minute to three.

Pop!
My Mom’s incredibly angry face flashed over the clock’s face.

When I got home, Mom pounced.
“What the hell did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“What happened to your shirt?”

Then she saw my face and her voice
went up an octave.

“What did you do to your face?”

“Two sixth graders started a fight in the schoolyard at lunchtime.
I was leaning against a car right next to them. One of them had a box of
pen cartridges in his shirt pocket. They were wrestling, two of the cartridges
were crushed - and the ink flew all over. Luckily, I wasn’t hurt, but the
ink got me in a few places.”

“A few places?” Mom said.

“Are you sure you weren’t refereeing
the fight?

“No, Mom…no, no, no, I was doing
nothing. Just standing there.”

“Where? In the ink factory
when it exploded?”

“Take the shirt off and throw it
away. Then come over here by the sink.”

Mom knew
second graders weren’t allowed near ink.

“Thank you,
God,” I whispered.

At the sink,
Mom putBoraxoscrubbing powder on a washcloth and
began making little circles on my face.

“Ouch” I
said pulling away. “My face is being ground with sand. “

“Well, what
else can we use to get this ink off? Stop fidgeting and stay still.
If you let me work, it’ll be over one, two, three.”

I gave him a
knuckle when Mom wasn’t looking – a slight tap. He had a fever, so I held
back a bit. I felt bad for him. Because he was on the verge of
getting sick, there was no way Mom was letting him go with Dad and me to the
Macy’s Thanksgiving parade in the morning.

This is a three-part
story, the second and third sections will appear tomorrow and Thursday.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Last night, in the chilly and damp West Village, the lucky ones found warmth down the stairs at the Cornelia Street Cafe at the "City Stories: Stoops to Nuts" show. The tales and songs merged beautifully. Thank you, Michele Carlo, Julia Joseph, John Newell and Tim O'Mara for joining in, working hard, and letting us all enjoy your talented performances. Thank you, to a supportive audience for cheering us on. Thank you, Steve Northeast and Paul for keeping the customers satisfied and making us feel at home. Thank you, Robin, Angelo and Josh for letting us play at the Cafe.

Please see links above to view and buy Julia, Michele & Tim's music and books.

Here are photos from the show last night and a few shots of the West Village.

I'm telling a doozy on December 11th so get there early because I'm leading off and enjoying the rest of the show from the catbird seat. Barbara, Nicole, Amanda and Adam performing is my idea of an excellent time. Start saving your eight dollars right now.

Sunday, November 11, 2012

Veteran's Day was a big day on York Avenue. Flags hung from most windows, men went to the bars, and youngsters played war and talked about which of their relatives served where and made up stories if they didn't have enough information. Kids called each other on the bullshit so you had to be careful tale stretching.

Originally called Armistice Day, it fell on November 11th because WWI hostilities ended at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month with Germany's signing of the armistice. In school most of our teachers still used that term even though the name was changed to Veterans Day in 1954.

Thomas Pryor first day back from WWII on York Ave.

Pictured here are my Dad with his cousins in front of 501 E 84th Street and his brother, Tom, on York Avenue in front of 1582 along with a couple of now shots of York Avenue and two photos of the Service Flag Dedication in August 1942. Dad said that cars were so scarce during WWII because of gas shortages that he and his friends played stickball and touch tackle football on York Avenue in front of his apartment building at 1582 right next to Old Timers Tavern.

Yorkville flew its flags proudly on Armistice/Veterans Day and marched for its sons and daughters

Our next "City Stories: Stoops to Nuts," storytelling show at Cornelia Street Cafe is Tuesday, November 13th @ 6pm. Our artists: Michele Carlo, Julia Joseph, John Newell and Tim O'Mara. Admission is $8 and that includes a free drink. Come down to the Café, nuzzle in and let the telling take you away.